


Paris, the City of Strangers

by musicmillennia



Series: The Unusuals [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Dark, Avians, Banshees, Body Horror, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Ghosts, Gore, Half-Vampires, Hallucinations, Horror, Magic, Multi, Mutilation, Necromancy, Potions, Self-Mutilation, Sorcerers, Sorceresses, Tentacles, Twisted Everything, Twisted Humor, Twisted Paris, Vampires, Were-Creatures, Werewolves, Wingfic, Wings, Witches & Warlocks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a saying in France, told from parent to child as a playful tune disguised as a lesson: "Paris is where The Strange go."</p><p>As time passes, this tune develops characters: the Monarch who knows Death; the Cardinal whose hands are as red as his robes; the Crow-Man with a poisonous smile and sparks in his fingers; the Mother-Queen of the Underworld, whose claws are as sharp as her tongue; the faceless Scholar who speaks with a voice of a thousand others; the Creature of the Unknown who lives in the Shadows of the Catacombs; the Only Honest Creature with a tainted past; the Lady who knows all of the Secrets; and the Quixotic born from ashes.</p><p>If you want to survive in Paris, you either become them, befriend them, or you develop quick feet. Yet Athos is not planning on surviving at all; the Strange, however, have other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire and Rope

**Author's Note:**

> MY OTHER STORIES ARE STILL ON HIATUS. I just need to write something more like this to distract myself from my grandmother's imminent death, okay? Yes, that is what is happening, and I feel wretched. Thank you for your patience thus far.
> 
> This was inspired by a lot of things, but chiefly Fallen London, a choose-your-own-adventure website you can go to and sign up for absolutely nothing. Trust me, it's a lot of fun, and provides wonderful distraction from the normal. I highly recommend it.
> 
> Hooray for lovely healthy rarepairs. I regret nothing.

_"Her twisted hair, her ragged dress, started dancing like a kite._  
_Yet I know there was no wind,_  
_As I lay there ever pinned._  
_All my hopes where slowly thinned by lady hovered in mid-flight."_

_["Beware the woman in white" by Dan Boyd](http://allpoetry.com/poem/11369488-Beware-the-woman-in-white-by-Dan-Boyd) _

-&-

**Part I: Past**

-&-

It was easier to imagine it as a story. Stories were not real; they happened to other, fictional people, in fictional worlds. Sometimes, in those lonely hours before dawn, drunk enough to think about it, he murmured the nonsensical tale through unmoving lips.

Once upon a time, there was a young man and a young woman. They fell in love; they married. For two years, their lives were filled with nothing but warm kisses and sunshine.

She wove forget-me-nots into her curls, pranced barefoot about their fields. She had Helen's smile and Aphrodite's stare. He loved her with everything he could ever have.

Once upon a time, there was a gullible man and a desperate woman. She told him lies, and he blindly took them as gospel.

Once upon a time, there was a broken shell and a white dress stained with blood.

Olivier—the gullible, broken shell—found Anne—the desperate, stained woman—standing over his brother's body. Only it was not a body, but a severed mess of flesh and shattered bone. The organs were as pale as the bits of skin scattered about the floor, which squished under Olivier's feet as he staggered. Drained of blood.

Thomas' eyeballs had just finished rolling. They landed, as if by design, at Olivier's feet, staring, accusing him.

 _You brought it into our house,_ they cried,  _you did this._

Anne's lily white dress dripped, dripped with blood. "Olivier," she whispered, horrified, "Please, I never meant—I did not—"

And Catherine, Thomas' betrothed, began to scream.

No trial was given, for Olivier did not deserve one and nor did she. As the sun rose, the rope wrapped around Anne's lovely neck. She was still in her red-white dress. Still beautiful.

Olivier did not watch her dangle, for Olivier was a coward at heart. He rode to the next town that day with only a locket, some money, and a fresh set of clothes.

Then he died. Whether of grief, drink, something else entirely, or perhaps a combination of all three, no one knew. His legacy was that locket—her locket—containing one pressed forget-me-not.

The night of his death, La Fère burned.

A tragedy in its own right, he mused as the sun rose above the distant trees. Certainly a guaranteed hit as an opera.

A shame the story had no foreseeable conclusion. A shame that Athos could see this new sunrise.


	2. The End is the Beginning

_"There are things you remember, and there are things you can't forget."_

_Henry Walker,_ Dead Silence

-&-

**The 31st of December, 1629**

The best things on Earth end quickly. Princess Anne learned this when her brother sold her to France as a bargaining chip; Queen Anne remembered this every time her ladies bound and shoved her into the cellar.

Paris, France, was as good a city as a city could be. Therefore, it was not a city in which Anne belonged. So she worked tirelessly to make it the best.

The littlest things can cast the biggest shadows. Queen Anne of France learned this when the clock struck midnight, when the Fog settled in; Queen Anne of New Paris remembered this when she screamed freely for the first time, standing over the corpse of her poor friend Louis.

Those little things stalked from the shadows with glowing eyes and howling mouths. The most important little thing gazed at her in awe as she shattered a corpse's eardrums so thoroughly they burst in twin spurts of blood.

Thunderous applause greeted her final echoes instead of shackles and tears.

0:00.

0:01.

Anne was spun around in her important little thing's arms. The world ended, and she laughed.

 


	3. Why Persephone Killed Hades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is said that Porthos' real name is actually Isaac, so I used that.

_"She wore her crown_  
_like a beacon;_  
_a beautiful queen,_  
_plotting against her king._  
_They never wanted you_  
_to know the hunger of Persephone,_  
_how she starved for something_  
_other than pomegranates."_

_Emily Palermo_

-&-

In Court, you chose your name. Many of the subjects had no choice, either never having a name to begin with or cherishing their true one enough not to reveal it. When Flea was mocked for her chosen name, she only smiled. When she was not, she latched.

A precious few saw Flea's name for what it was. Not a tiny bug who wandered the scum of the Earth, but a stealthy little creature who preyed on the flesh until there was nothing but a scarred mess. Flea's name was her identity, her occupation. Flea's name was how she survived.

That precious few contained two people: a boy her age, and a woman who smelled like sorrow and yearning. The boy called himself Charon, while the woman merely shook her head at the question. Some of the Court's subjects did that; they were the ones who expected Death to kiss their forehead long before anyone bothered to remember their name, chosen or otherwise.

Woman did die, but it was some years later, when her baby was a child. She whispered his name and hers into his ear while she cradled him to her breast (Flea tried to stop her ears from picking them up, but  _Isaac_ and  _Nuru_ pierced through her fingers all the same). Every day she repeated these names, coupling them together, switching them around, for five years. When he was able to repeat them back to her, she finally succumbed to her fever.

(Flea never knew what happened to that boy—that was what she told everyone.)

Then there were two. Flea and Charon. Charon and Flea.

In every Court, not just theirs, reputation was everything. Flea accomplished much in her early years, from pick-pocketing to big heists that put bread on the table for more than a few days together. And where she went, Charon followed at her side.

|Pack,| that little voice, growling and primal, always called him when the moon rose full and bright, when she ran on all fours and his laughter rang in the wind.

They grew from tiny slips of things into hardened, clever creatures. Flea let herself believe that, out of everything the world had not given her, this was the one thing she could clutch between her jowls for the rest of her life. This faint but treasured hope grew bright as the moonlight on the former King's shredded heart.

Flea and Charon. King and Queen of the Court of Miracles.

She saw their kingdom as a bastion, a cradle for lost souls. Yes they were poor, yes they were diseased, but they knew they could survive. Something those nobles could not vouch for themselves.

But he saw it as a pile of dirt. Disposable, worthless. If the price was right, oh how fast he would try to rip it apart. Flea stood as witness to this.

He had been so close to striking that fuse. Flea remembered well: 31st of December, seventeen hours and forty-nine minutes into the day, Charon looking so very apologetic, as if he could repay his attempt at destroying the souls they had sworn to protect. What a grand speech he had made, too—a love declaration of all things, proposing to run away like lovers from one of those books That Child's mother hoarded from wherever she had spirited from all those years ago.

Charon was no longer Charon in that moment. |Not Pack. Kill.| had been her wolf's exact words.

But first, she'd had her own grand speech to deliver.

Flea pinned him to the dirt, claws embedded in his cheeks to keep his traitor mouth from moving again. Eyes glowing a menacing silver, she snarled, "And here I had come to give you the surprise announcement. I'd been put on the Queen's List—that's right," she hissed to his wide eyes, "one of her Little Things to renew the city. She's going to give the Court,  _our people_ , a future they've never even dared to dream of! Think I'm lying, don't yah? I listened to her heart, Charon. And you and I know what she is, what her word means, besides.

"This  _Empire of Dirt_ , as you call it, will rise to something great, and you were going to destroy it? Everything we've built here, everything we've known. This means something to me, this is my  _life_ , Charon! I'm not going to abandon my life for some cocked up fantasy built on killing my subjects. I will defend them, and myself."

|Not Pack.|

"Whatever way necessary."

| _Not. Pack._ |

Flea tore his heart out with her teeth. Her fur never felt more comfortable or right.

At the stroke of midnight, she howled in harmony with her fellow Queen. And the Fog settled.


	4. A Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The main character in this tale and our two Queens have been introduced. It is time to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, the town is fictional, and I did make a reference to L'Etranger.

_"I tried to show you_  
_the sunshine_  
_and hope_  
_and how great life can be_  
_When you take it on_  
_soberly_  
  
_But when it came your_  
_turn to choose_  
_You chose the path_  
_without any rules..."_  
  
([Source](http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/missing-you-i-miss-my-son#ixzz3gn9E10p1%20)) 

-&-

**Part II: Present**

-&-

It no longer surprises the citizens of Bouard to have no visitors. Before New Paris, people would flock to their taverns and shops before traveling to the great city; now, because of their scarce few hours' proximity with the Fog, only the remaining handful of Bouard's residents remain. Regretfully, the same can be said for all towns and villages like theirs. The true surprise is anyone being stubborn enough to stay.

There is but one working tavern left, located among closed shops and silent streets. A dilapidated thing, with a hastily patched roof and windows covered in dust despite the owner's wife's best efforts. The creaking, swinging sign shows a barely recognizable image of a bird with faded words reading  _The Warbling_ in curving text. Regulars come and go every day, fitting the same schedule and orders with almost tenacious consistency; attempting, perhaps, to maintain a shred of normalcy in the five years since Paris was renewed.

The visitor comes during the afternoon rush (though it can hardly be called such anymore). Predictably, the entire tavern hushes into a shocked silence as an unfamiliar man enters, steps slow and labored as if he wants nothing more than to collapse and never rise again. His clothes are covered in dirt, obviously from a hard ride; next to no one can glean anything from his face, as his features are nearly completely obscured by his overgrown beard and hair.

The owner, once a stout man not thinner from hardship and lack of food, greets this newcomer with his usual forced cheer. "Don't get many visitors around here," he adds, taking a cup from the shelf, "What'll yeh have?"

A soft reply is made, one only the owner can hear even in the silence. Regardless it is obvious by M. Mersault's sympathetic eyes that the requested drink is a strong one. The patrons care not for the man's preferences, however; what they are eager to know is—

"May I ask what brings you here, Monsieur?" M. Mersault asks. He too practically salivates with curiosity, politeness barely containing it in his voice. "We are no longer a very lively people or close to anythin' desirable besides."

Smooth, noble tones escape the confines of the man's beard, this time heard by all. "You are close to New Paris."

Almost instantly, the silence takes a drastic shift from expectant to horrified. Likewise M. Mersault pales considerably, lip trembling as he contemplates possible responses.

"M-Monsieur," he stammers at length, "why would you step into such a wretched place?"

"I have my reasons."

Madame Mersault interjects, "What on Earth could those reasons be, Monsieur? All due respect, but d'you have any idea what lurks in that Fog?"

the man sounds completely unfazed: "I am told they are called 'The Strange.'"

Old Ferrar speaks up, waving his cup for emphasis, "Aye, The Strange! Blasted unnatural creatures, all ruled by the Screaming Queen!"

The stranger takes a swig of his drink, them hums and says in a dry voice, "Of course. 'The Monarch Who Knows Death,' yes?"

"And 'er consort, 'e looks after everythin' for 'er," M. Ferrar continues earnestly, "The Crow-Man! If 'e finds you—"

"With his poisonous smile and sparking fingers?" if anything, the visitor is amused, as if they are talking about the cow spitting cud in Monsieur So-And-So's face.

"You joke about it all y'want! Don't come cryin' to us if 'e breaks your neck with a snap of 'is fingers!"

"If he did, I would imagine I could not come crying to anyone at all, Monsieur."

M. Mersault shakes his head. "Is there anything I can say that would convince you to reconsider this mad venture, Monsieur?"

"No," the visitor replies simply, "At dawn tomorrow, I leave for the city."

Mme. Mersault nevertheless tries to argue further: "Monsieur, whatever it is that drives you to Death's door, surely it is not so terrible that you would wish such a fate upon yourself?"

Nobody can properly see a change in the man's countenance, if there is one. Yet as soon as the words are out of Madame's mouth, something heavy settles in the air around the visitor. Something dark and grim.

"On the contrary," he murmurs, "I can think of no fate more suitable, Madame."

Before anyone can think to say anything else, the man gulps down what is left in his cup and leaves nothing but a few coins behind.

-&-

At the only active inn left in town, there are two guests. One is the stranger. The other has been here for a long time.

He always seems to be waiting for something, this other man. Although he speaks with kindness to everyone he meets, the people always whisper about the sadness lurking like a shadow in his eyes. A pensive sort of sadness, like a father whose child has not yet returned home after a simple errand.

Once he hears the whispers about this self-doomed newcomer, that sadness, that impatience, combines to make something new. Almost as if that for which he has been waiting is finally coming to fruition.

"Which room is he in, Monsieur?"

-&-

Of all the people Athos expects to be knocking at his door, it is not this quiet, haunted old man, clutching his hat in his white knuckles. At best he'd been prepared to hold off another bout of terrified descriptions of New Paris; this, however, gives him pause.

After a moment of their awkward silence, Athos settles for politeness over sarcasm; this man does not look the sort who would appreciate the latter. "Can I help you, Monsieur?"

"Why do you wish to travel to New Paris?"

This abrupt question sullies Athos' demeanor back into annoyance. "I will not be deterred—"

The man surprises him by shaking his head. "My intention is not to deter you, Monsieur," he says, fiddling with his hat. "Quite the opposite, in fact. Please Monsieur, may I come in?"

Athos starts, berating himself for his lack of manners. Immediately he steps aside to permit the man. "Call me Athos."

The old man inclines his head. "Alexandre D'Artagnan, at your service."

-&-

Rooftops are his favorite dwelling lately. While he, along with the rest of his fellows, loves being immersed in Mother's Touch, sometimes he flies up to see the moon and stars on top of the fiery fairy's house. Her chimney's always smoking, warm with her cooking or her magic; later, he'll glide back down to the street and have another one of their long talks over her mother's soup.

But right now, a breeze rolls in, and he sighs happily, wings flaring out to catch it. He'd never fly away from Mother's Touch, never-never-never, but oh, this is nice.

Something howls below, enticing that Wild part of him to flare pleasantly. His eyes begin to glow as warmly as his laughter, their colors flowing and overlapping each other. Those in his acquaintance say his wild eyes look like a sunset—something ending, finishing, in a blaze of glory.

It might be a bit romantic of him, but he'd like to think that, one day, the one he's meant to be with will call his Wild Eyes a sunrise.

-&-

Athos and M. D'Artagnan sit across from each other over a modest bottle of wine. Without his hat, M. D'Artagnan resorts to pulling mildly at the hem of his worn shirt; idly Athos wonders what could have caused such calloused, worked hands to make these nervous twitches.

The visitor speaks first, after they've each had at least a sip from their cups. "I have something I must ask of you, Athos. Something that, I hope, you will do me the great kindness of carrying out before seeing to...whatever reasons which bring you to that—that place."

Athos rolls his thumb across the side of his cup, considering. "I will be honest with you, Monsieur D'Artagnan—"

"Alexandre, please."

"...Alexandre. These reasons that call me to New Paris cannot be done by myself alone, and I could not say when—or how—"

"Athos," Alexandre interrupts quietly, "let us not retain any illusions between us. You go deliberately to your death." Athos' grip spasms almost imperceptibly around his cup; he does not react otherwise. "I have seen that look too many times in the mirror these past years not to know it." A moment's pause. "I will not ask you why, and as I said it is not my intention to take you from your path. All I ask is this one favor of you."

"Since you know my reasons, Monsieur," Athos murmurs, "then you must also know that I speak the truth. I cannot say what will happen once the gates have closed behind me."

Alexandre nods vehemently, clearly impatient. "Yes, yes, of course. But this will not take long at all, and I swear on my honor, you can carry out my request safely. Afterwards, well...do as you will."

At the very least, he cannot be blamed if he is killed despite Alexandre's oath. What is one more regret? "What would you have me do?"

Delighted relief washes Alexandre's face, easing that deep-seated sadness just enough for a little light to shine in his eyes. "Thank you, Athos!" he whispers, seizing Athos' hand, "Thank you!"

Feeling incredibly out of place, Athos clears his throat and politely removes his hand. "I have yet to hear this request."

Instantly Alexandre reaches into his old leather vest. What he produces is nothing but a very worn, wrinkled piece of parchment. Athos is almost certain it will tear under the slightest bit of stress in this state. Obviously he has kept this for quite a while.

"Am I to be a delivery-man, then?" Athos asks, the dry humor slipping from him in a vain attempt to lighten the situation.

Fortunately, Alexandre smiles. Then the next moment, it fades into a somber frown. He handles this parchment like a precious artifact, gaze fixate on it as he replies: "Athos...I have not asked for much in my lifetime. Not for myself, anyway. But—if I ever wished for anything, it is for the one thing I cannot have. A sad fate, is it not?" Athos hums, for lack of knowing how else to respond.

Alexandre continues: "There is something in that Fog surrounding New Paris. Stay in there long enough, it...changes you."

"You speak from experience?"

"Not exactly. I myself was, as you can see, not taken into its wildness. But...it did take my son. My Charles."

Athos' heart plummets. This is not a regret he wants, though one he knows he deserves. "You wrote a letter to him," he surmises.

Alexandre looks back up at him. His eyes are wet. "I wanted to petition the King on Gascony's behalf. That is where I am from, Athos—a little village by the name of Lupiac. I fell ill on the way to Paris, and Charles offered to go on ahead. I thought it would be good for him to experience the city on his own. Every father wishes his son to have experience of the world beyond what he has known.

"Then the Fog struck. I was so worried over him, I could barely sleep. But he returned, bright and smiling as he always was. Still, he...well. Something had shifted inside of him."

Athos' eyebrows furrow. "Shifted?"

Alexandre nods. "From that day on, all he could talk about was New Paris. I tried to keep him grounded, I tried everything, Monsieur, but he always rambled on and on, longing for his—his _family_. One day," the man takes a shuddering breath, "one day he looked right through me. As if he did not know his own father."

Athos takes another long sip of his wine. "What happened then?"

"Our barn burned to ashes. Charles managed to get the animals out in time, but..." Alexandre swallows. "I thought him dead. My poor boy, barely of age, dead and gone. Yet the night following the fire, I heard something. A bird's cry." Athos carefully keeps his face neutral as Alexandre's turns slightly manic. "I ran out to see what had happened, it was so loud. That was when I saw him—Charles, alive and well, but...so very changed. I have not seen him since, though I know for certain New Paris has become his home."

Athos blinks. "Alexandre—"

"I am not long for this world now, Athos, but I could never step foot inside that wretched city. If you are truly going there, I ask you, as a grieving father whose only wish is to see his son one last time, to find my boy and give this to him." Alexandre passes the letter to Athos. "Please."

For a long stretch of minutes, all Athos can do is stare blankly at the letter.

"There is no guarantee—"

"Athos. If you survive more than an hour's time in that Fog, you will not find death unless you ask for it outright. Charles himself recounted many such instances in those early days. Should you walk out of that city again, that strangeness will follow you as it did him. Yet I am not asking you to return, only that you deliver one letter to him."

Athos takes another swig of his wine, draining most of what remains in his cup. "Charles," he says at length, "what does he look like?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
